AWRYTE | Weekly Post | ~1,150 words They say it like it’s kindness. “You don’t need to explain yourself.” And maybe for most people, it is. A way of saying— You’re already okay. You’re already accepted. You’re safe. But when someone says it to me, I panic. Because I do need to explain myself. That’s how I feel safe. I’ve always been a clarifier. I repeat myself. I reword. I circle back. I give context, then background, then a note about tone. Then a follow-up message because

AWRYTE | Weekly Post | ~1,180 words I don’t remember the first time I heard it. But I remember the sting. “You’re too sensitive.” It wasn’t a question. It was a correction. A signal to shrink. A cue to toughen up. I didn’t understand what I’d done wrong— just that I had once again responded wrong. Too loud. Too upset. Too moved. Too much. “You’re too sensitive” is a phrase I learned to hear before I learned what my feelings were even called. I heard it when my eyes watered in

AWRYTE | Weekly Post | ~1,115 words “Why are you still talking about that?” It’s a question that lands sharp. Usually said with annoyance. Sometimes disbelief. Almost always by someone who’s already moved on. But I haven’t. I can’t. Not because I want to rehash the past. Not because I’m trying to stir things up. Because my brain doesn’t close loops on command. I remember everything. Not in a savant way. In a stuck way. An off comment. A weird glance. A moment that didn’t reso

AWRYTE | Weekly Post | ~1,115 words “You’re so articulate.” It’s always meant as praise. Said with a smile. Sometimes even surprise. But what they’re really saying is, “You don’t sound like you’re struggling.” And that’s the problem. I’ve always had a way with words. Teachers noticed it early. Grown-ups praised me for it. I was the kid who could explain things clearly, make a case for anything, read the room well enough to adjust my tone on cue. They called it a gift. But no

AWRYTE | Weekly Post | ~1,120 words I’ve heard it more times than I can count: “You always have to have the last word.” It’s said with an eye roll. With exasperation. Like I’m being difficult on purpose. But here’s the thing— It’s not about winning. It’s not about ego. It’s about something unfinished. Something still buzzing in my brain that won’t let me go until I get it out. Autistic looping isn’t dramatic. It’s quiet. Internal. Relentless. A phrase, a misread tone, an unre

AWRYTE | Weekly Post | ~1,105 words “Did you mean to be rude?” That’s the question I’ve been hit with more times than I can count. Usually after I said something direct. Or honest. Or just… true. I didn’t roll my eyes. I didn’t raise my voice. I just didn’t wrap my words in extra padding. And that, somehow, made people uncomfortable. I’ve been misunderstood for most of my life. Not because I’m mean. But because I speak plainly. I say what I see. I name what I notice. I don’t

AWRYTE | Weekly Post | ~1,190 words Some things are just… hard for me. Not in a dramatic way. Not in a “look at me struggling” way. Just in a real, daily, exhausting way. Things that most people don’t think twice about— answering a text, picking up the phone, changing clothes, making a decision, starting a task— they catch in my brain like static. I know they’re supposed to be simple. They just aren’t. When I say “this is hard for me,” I don’t mean I don’t want to do it. I me

AWRYTE | Weekly Post | ~1,080 words Some people seem to know, instinctively, how to arrange their face. Not just for photos—though that’s its own minefield—but in conversation, at the grocery store, on Zoom. They react before the other person finishes a sentence. A head tilt here. A soft nod. A knowing smile. A flicker of concern at the exact right second. I watch them sometimes. Their faces look like dance partners with the moment—always a step ahead, always on rhythm. Mine

AWRYTE | Weekly Post | ~1,195 words “You handled it so well.” They mean it as a compliment. I know that. They’re trying to acknowledge how much I juggle. How calm I seem. How I stay composed under pressure. What they don’t know is that I’m dissociating. That my body is in go-mode because it doesn’t know how to pause. That the part of me that would usually speak up and say “this is too much” got silenced years ago. They see poise. I feel panic. When you’re good at surviving, p

AWRYTE | Weekly Post | ~1,170 words I’ve been told I “talk too much” more times than I can count. Or that I “overexplain,” “go on tangents,” or “get stuck in the details.” I’ve been cut off mid-thought. Watched people glance at their phones while I’m still mid-sentence. Heard sighs. Seen eye rolls. I know what it looks like. But what people don’t understand is—if I don’t say it, I’ll feel it forever. I’m not talking for attention. I’m talking for release. When I speak, I’m un

AWRYTE | Weekly Post | ~1,175 words “You’re too smart for that.” I used to think it was a compliment. Until I realized it was just another way to say: Figure it out yourself. You don’t get to need help. Your brain should be able to save you. It didn’t. I was a smart kid. That wasn’t up for debate. I knew words early. I aced spelling tests. I memorized scripts in record time and got straight As without even trying. And adults loved that. I became the one who helped other kids

AWRYTE | Weekly Post | ~1,120 words “Just let it go.” Said like a kindness. Like a life hack. Like I’d be free if I just stopped caring so much. But I don’t hold onto things because I want to. I hold onto them because I can’t not. You tell me it’s over. That it’s done. That I’m safe now. But my body didn’t get the memo. It’s still playing the scene. Still stuck in the pause between someone’s tone and my reaction. Still bracing. My brain doesn’t file away feelings neatly. It l

AWRYTE | Weekly Post | ~1,125 words “I didn’t mean it like that.” They say it like a lifeline. Like it should cancel out how it landed. As if intent is magic and I should just unfeel the impact. But I do know what you meant. I always do. That’s the problem. People assume I miss things. They assume I can’t read between the lines. That I’m too blunt, too literal, too slow to get the joke. They don’t realize that I’ve been reading subtext harder than anyone in the room since I w

AWRYTE | Weekly Post | ~1,075 words “You always notice the wrong thing.” I heard that a lot growing up. Said with a smile. Said with frustration. Said like it was a flaw I’d eventually grow out of. But I didn’t grow out of it. Because it wasn’t a phase. It was wiring. I remember being seven, walking into a room and noticing the crooked picture frame before anything else. Not the birthday cake. Not the decorations. Not the smiling faces saying “surprise!” Just the tilted frame

AWRYTE | Weekly Post | ~1,050 words Some things are easy for me. Too easy, even. I can remember a stranger’s tone from six years ago. I can smell bullshit from a sentence away. I can hyperfocus through chaos, crank out a full presentation, and still have brain space to mentally rehearse a fight I didn’t even have yet. Other things? Hard. Impossible, sometimes. I’ve cried over voicemails. Frozen trying to refill a prescription. Panicked while trying to pick a toothpaste brand.